Appledoor Flowers
by J Sundrop
Summary: A mash between The Hunger Games, The Fault in Our Stars, and BBC's Sherlock, John is living with lung cancer and Sherlock has one leg. John can't survive the hunger games, so they must both cope with tragedy that neither of them predicted. *This is a 20 page story - all in one chapter **Please review - this is my first fanfic attempt!


1.

The day before the reaping, I lug my oxygen bag through town towards the Hob. The wheels glide smoothly along the unpaved dirt road, and very slowly, the black market comes into view. I carry with me a few medicinal pastes made by my mother to trade for less expensive oxygen tanks. The trek from home to the Hob is longer, but we get a better price than going to the Official Medical Supply Center in town square. My lungs can usually take the trip and I usually take a few minutes to rest before going to Molly Hooper's stand. She's a little older than me, about 18, and sells me the blackmarket oxygen tanks at a lower price. However today, I guess the stress of the reaping is getting to me and I have to stop about three quarters of the way there.

With nowhere to sit, I just stand at the side of the road and my companion stops next to me. "John, are you alright?" That would be Sherlock, my best friend. We met when I was thought to be just a chronically asthmatic kid. Later on I was diagnosed with lung cancer, which actually made me feel a bit better, knowing what was going on with my body. However, oxygen tanks and fluid drainings completely depleted my already poor families funds, so now even I was working (behind my mother's back of course) to put a little extra in our pockets. This also means going to the black market to buy oxygen tanks instead of the official ones at the OMSC. The tank connects to a nasal cannula which threads up my shirt, around my ears, and the little nubbins go in my nostrils to provide enough oxygen to make up for the fact that my lungs don't really work.

"Yea, fine. Just need to stand for a bit." Sherlock understands. His own brother Mycroft is asthmatic – Sherlock's own little view into my life - which is why despite his frequent attempts Mycroft can never quite stick to an exercise routine. That, and laziness.

Sherlock pulls out a pack of cigarettes and puts one between his teeth.

"You know, I never quite understand why you do that," I tell him. Without looking at me, he says "It's a metaphor." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old Rubix Cube and I begin counting.

"I put the killing thing in my mouth, but I don't give it the power to let it kill me."

When he solves it, he looks at me and I say "85 seconds. You're getting slow." He smiles. "Perhaps my mind is a bit preoccupied. Ready to go?" I nod, and we finish the walk over to the Hob.

I stop at a bench and give Sherlock the pastes and he makes the trades. He knows as well as I do the tanks I need and can afford.

"Molly says hello," he says when he gets back. Sherlock sits down next to me and we both take in the scenery. After a few seconds, he pulls out a package from behind his back. "Surprise!" he says. Before I say anything he opens the package and inside is a whole bag of strawberries.

"Sherlock, you didn't have to…" I begin. I'm always a little uncomfortable accepting things from people, even from Sherlock. He puts the cigarette between his teeth back into its box and pops a strawberry in his mouth. "I know. But I didn't buy them for you. I bought them for me, and I'm _sharing_ them with you." But we both know strawberries are my favorite and that although Sherlock likes them, they aren't his favorite.

He swallows the strawberry and offers the package to me. I reluctantly accept, and take one of the smaller strawberries. However, I also come bearing gifts. I reach into my bag and feel around for the box I know is in there. I finally find it and pull out a small box wrapped in brown paper.

"What's this?" he asks, genuinely surprised. He wouldn't expect me to spend anything on presents, despite him being my one and only friend.

"A little present for reaping day." I take another berry. He unwraps the paper and a cigarette box comes into view. I bought him the fancy expensive cigarettes, the ones saved for special occasions.

"John, you didn't… I mean you shouldn't… Umm… Thank you." He, too, recognizes the brand.

"You're welcome."

As I chew another strawberry he mimics, "And may the odds be ever –"

"In your _flavor_!" I finish. Sherlock tastes another strawberry and makes a face as he chews. "This one certainly isn't!" and we laugh.

2.

My eyes open with a burning pain in my chest. I look to my window and see darkness; it's the middle of the night. My breathing pace increases and I don't have enough oxygen. There is a bell by my bed to ring for emergency purposes and I fumble for it. When I think I have grasped it, I find it falling from my hand. I faintly hear it hitting the floor, and I briefly wish I could just _lose consciousness already_ so the pain would just stop. But I know if I do the chances of getting help would decrease to almost zero, so pushing past the fogginess pain causes I push myself off my mattress and land on the floor with a hard thud. Somebody ought to hear that. Sure enough, through the blackness clouding the edges of my vision I see my older sister Harriet stumble into my room.

"John? John! What's happened? Where are you?"

Lack of oxygen slows down my brain functions but I manage to push the bell toward where she is. Harry immediately traces where the bell came from, comes to where I'm at and lifts me off the floor. She places me back on my mattress and frantically looks for my oxygen tank.

"Hang on," she tells me as she searches.

"John, what's all the ruckus about," my mother announces as she walks in rubbing her eyes.

"He knocked over the bloody oxygen tank and woke up!" Harry informs her.

"Harriet, language!" my mom scolds as she picks up the tank and mask from where they fell and repositions the mask.

I press the mask to my face and inhale deeply, finally having enough air to hyperventilate, but not the right lungs to do it. My chest still burns but the pain recedes as I regain control over my breaths.

"Better?" Harry asks me. I nod. "Thanks."

"Harriet, why couldn't you see the tank? It was almost right in front of you," Mom questions.

"I don't know, it was dark. And it's Harry."

"But I could see it and we're in the same lighting."

"I don't know, Mom. Can we just leave this alone? He's alright now."

"Harriet, come here."

"Why?"

"Have you been drinking again?" Shock and annoyance are the fibers of my mother's voice.

Don't do this now.

"Mom, I'm fine, John's fine, and you're just tired. Let's just go to sleep," Harry responds, trying to evade the question.

"Harriet Watson, you've been drinking!"

This isn't going well.

"What about it? It's not like I'm drunk. Just a little tipsy. We were just relaxing before the reaping. And it's Harry!"

"We? Who were you with? That band of drunks you hang out with? I don't want you near them!"

Definitely not going well.

"It's not like I'm the next Haymitch Abernathy or something! I just had a few drinks, no big deal!" Harry defends.

"Yeah. A few drinks today, yesterday, the day before. This is becoming a problem!"

"Can I go to sleep now?" I ask.

"Yeah, mom. Big day tomorrow, with the reaping and all," Harry adds.

"This is not the end of it Harriet." Mom turns her attention back to me. "Are you feeling better?" she asks.

"Yea, Mom."

"Harriet, I want you in here tonight in case John wakes up again. And I expect you to be fully awake and aware in the morning."

"Goodnight Mom," Harry and I chorus.

"Sweet dreams," and she closes the door.

3.

"What was it this time?" Harry asks me.

"What do you mean?" I respond, knowing exactly what she is talking about.

"The nightmare."

"What nightmare?" I play innocent.

"The one which caused you to knock over your tank in the middle of the night."

"Oh that? Umm, well…" In truth, I was dreaming about the reaping. In my dream, Sherlock's name was called and I tried to volunteer. However when I tried to speak, I found that my lugs had fluid in them and I started coughing and choking, but nobody was helping me. So Sherlock got sent away because I could help him.

But I didn't want to tell Harry this so I turned the conversation around. "It was that my sister had become an alcoholic and I couldn't help her."

"Hey," she said, mocking offense.

"But we both know I have a reason to be worried. Seriously, though. Are you okay?"

"What, now you've turned against me too?" she says, bitterness lacing her voice.

"Not against you, for you. I don't really care if you drink, just that I want you to have control over it."

"Well contain your alarm because I'm in control. I drink because I want to. I can stop if I want, but I don't want to."

"Fine then." I challenge her, "Tomorrow. Stay completely sober all day tomorrow, and then I'll stop bugging you."

"Seriously?" she laughs. "Bring it on. In fact, I'll stay sober a whole week if you won't bug me about it!"

"Deal?"

"Deal."

So we shake on it.

4.

The morning of the reaping, I wake up normally. Harry is nowhere to be seen. I exchange my oxygen mask and large tank for the portable bag and cannula and head to the kitchen. On the table there is freshly baked tesserae-grain bread, cheese, eggs, and, oh my even a pitcher of orange juice!

"Happy reaping day!" Harry dryly says. Her eyes are red and have dark circles under them.

"Did you make all this?" I say. She smiles. "It took me all night and morning but I gathered enough to trade to make this meal."

"Aren't you… tired?" I ask. I'm still a little tired and I actually slept. She shrugs. "I couldn't sleep anyway."

"You know, they say insomnia is a side effect of alcohol withdrawal…"

"Just like cancer is the failed mutated side effect of an evolutionary process that cares little for individual lives and cancer kids are side effects of mutation which ironically make the diversity of human life possible."

I stiffen. "I'm going to take a bath."

Harry notices the hardness in my voice and calls after me. "John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"Yeah, whatever." I keep walking.

"They also say mood swings are a side effect of alcohol withdrawal," she quietly responds. I stop walking, but don't turn around.

"And headaches. Loss of appetite. Hand tremors. Paleness, and yes, mood swings." By this time I've turned around. "I've done my research."

"So…"

"So I fear you might be right. And I'm sorry. That comment was mean and meant to hurt and I'm sorry."

We make eye contact, and she walks over to me. "Happy reaping day," I choke out as her arms wrap around me in a hug.

"Now go take a bath, you smelly mutt!" This time, I know she means it as a joke. So I begin the long and arduous process of taking a bath with lungs that don't really work.

When I return, still damp but clean and tired, the sun is fully up and the light illuminated our small kitchen. Mom is at the table eating her eggs. On the other hand, Harry is nibbling on some bread. I take my place between Harry and the empty seat which used to be our father's.

He worked in the coal mines until there was an accident; he blew up into bits. There wasn't even enough of him to bury; and 2 years later I still wake up in the middle of the night, breathless, unable to even scream for him to run. (Oddly enough, my diagnosis came three months after the accident. Like: We killed your father, you're next.) I'm sure Harry has those nightmares too. I think that's when she had her first drink; she had just come of age. I was 14 and she was 21. Maybe that's also why she drinks, to sleep without nightmares.

Today, I sit next to his chair which has the Medal of Valor they gave Harry after he died draped over it. Ignoring the headache blooming around my temples, I take a few sips of orange juice, trying to enjoy the treat. However I know the tightness in my chest has nothing to do with my cancer; it's worry. I worry that someone I love with be torn from me and that there will be nothing I can do to stop it.

5.

At around 1' o clock, after breakfast, I step out of the house and start heading to the square. Since my disease is technically considered "manageable" and I'm not yet on my deathbed, I still have to participate in the reaping.

"I'll meet you guys around the sign-in desk, okay?" They both nod, knowing that it's always better to walk in with a friend and that I'm starting out early both because I walk slowly and because I'm going to meet Sherlock.

When I get to the Holmes' house, and when I say house I mean mansion, I walk up to the front door. Sherlock and Mycroft's father is the mayor of District 12, which is why they live in a mansion. I climb the four front steps. Only four. The Justice Building had way more. I was so tired that day.

I knock on the door, the vibrations strengthening my headache.

"Just a second, dear!" shouts a voice from within. I recognize it to be their housekeeper and sure enough, the door opens and I see a friendly old face.

"John! What a lovely surprise. Please come in," she opens the door wider so I can pass.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"The boys are still sleeping, or at least Sherlock is. Who knows what Mycroft is up to. One of these days," she leans in closer to me. "One of these days I fear he's going to try and assassinate someone using his father's computer!" She looks around as though she's expecting peacekeepers to jump out from the shadows. "Then again he's probably just playing video games." I laugh, although it goes right to my temples. That sounds so typically Mycroft. He's always plotting something or another and trying to convince his father to input some sort of new regulation.

"Sit down, make yourself at home!" she says, walking away. "I'll try to wake up Sherlock to tell him you're here. I wonder if he remembers what day it is…" She stops at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, "There are cookies in the kitchen, John. Have some! I'm afraid they'll be cold by the time I get the boys down here." As Mrs. Hudson walks up the winding staircase, I count the stairs until I can no longer hear her footsteps. I reach thirty two and then her footsteps fade away.

"Hi John," says a voice I recognize to be Greg, one of Mycroft's few friends. Nether of the Holmes boys are very sociable, so we all know each other's friends.

"How's your day going Greg?"

"Oh, just wonderful. I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up."

"Good to hear."

"I heard Mrs. Hudson baked some cookies today, there in the kitchen if you're interested."

"Thanks for the tip." He puts his hands in his pockets.

"I'm heading out, so it was nice seeing you again."

"Same to you."

"Good luck today, John.

"Good luck."

6.

Although I would like the cookies, the kitchen is so far away and I'm still recuperating from the walk over here and nursing a headache, soon-to-be migraine. The clock below the flat screen on the wall reads 1:30. I hear uneven footsteps and soon complaining.

"But why do I have to get up so early?"

"It's not early! It's already 1:30!"

"But why is that so important?"

"Sherlock, have you really forgotten? Today is the reaping day."

"But it so boring! Do I have to go?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"UGH"

I see him before he sees me because he's rubbing his eyes.

"Oh, hello John."

"Did you really forget about today?"

"Yup," he says mid-yawn. He raises his arms to stretch and I notice he's still wearing his silk pajamas.

"Shouldn't you get dressed?" I remind him.

"Oh, yea. Right. Clothes…" This makes me laugh. Sherlock forgetting to get dressed. Just so typical. My hand flew to my head as my headache congregated to one place in the unreachable center of my head.

"John, are you okay?"

"Me? Yea, fine. I'm fine." He gave me a skeptical look.

"Just a headache, that's all. Really, I'm fine."

"Hold on a second. I'm just… going… Uhh… over there," and he points to the kitchen.

"And exactly where do you think I'm going?" I reply with a smile, which quickly disappears. Sherlock darts to the kitchen and in a short time is back with a pill in his hand.

"Headache relief, travel-sized." He offers the pill to me.

"Sherlock, really. I'm fine. All is well." I even smile widely which happens to be really painful.

"Fine then." He takes my hand and puts the pill inside it. "For when all is not well," he softly insists as he closes my fingers around it. I roll my eyes and put it in my pocket.

"I'm going to go shower and change, there are cookies in the kitchen, books on the shelf – you know this place as well as I do so just, stay put."

"Okay."

"Or not," he yells over his back as he runs up the stairs as well as he can considering he has a prosthetic left leg, or at least that's what I figure. He never talks about it and gets really defensive and closed off when I try to ask.

"Okay."

"You know, whatever works for you," he leans over the banister.

"Okay."

"Okay then," he flashes a smile and finishes going up the stairs.

7.

After we say goodbye to his family, Sherlock and I complete the walk to the square, ending near the sign-in desk a few minutes before 2' o clock. Harry and Mom are there waiting for me and when they see me, both Sherlock and I are suffocating in hugs.

"Can't… breathe…" Sherlock says.

"Oh, sorry," and they both back off. Three pairs of eyes rest on me as I start a horrible round of sickly-sounding coughing,

"Fine," I say between coughs. "I'm fine." Truthfully, however, each cough sends another wave of pain to my head and I really consider taking the little white pill in my pocket. But not right now. I don't want my mom to see me self-medicate and I certainly don't want Sherlock to know he was right. That I don't feel fine.

"Good luck," Mom tells me, her eyes becoming teary.

"I'm going to win that bet," Harry promises. "I will, and you'll see." She squeezes my hand.

"I know I will."

Sherlock's still-wet mop of dark curls bounce as we walk to the sign-in desk. They prick both of our fingers.

"Fourteen," I say aloud.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Fourteen times my name will be in that ball." Sherlock just looks at me.

When I was 14 I started taking tesserae. My father had just died and the family was struggling. Neither my mom nor Harry wanted me to, but I insisted, pulling out all the cards like "It's my life", "I can't do anything else" and "How else am I supposed to help?" So they finally stepped out of my way. I did that each year after, accumulating into fourteen times age sixteen.

"I mean, I know other people have their names in more times but it just doesn't seem fair. And I know I shouldn't really be complaining because I didn't have to but it just felt right, you know? To pull some of the weight. I don't even know why I'm mentioning this. It's not like anything will change."

"The world," Sherlock said. "Is not a wish-granting factory."

"I know."

"So do I." He took a deep breath, preparing to say something.

"You shared something about yourself and now it's my turn." I look at Sherlock and he doesn't meet my eyes.

"When I was younger, around eleven, I had a hard time doing things, moving around that is. So I went to the doctor and soon was diagnosed with Osteosarcoma – a form of bone cancer – in my leg." This is news. He continues. "So they determined that the best course of action would be amputation, so when I was turning twelve, I spent my birthday in an operating room. After that, I was in remission – still am in remission." He meets my eyes. "Which is why I can relate to you, why I snuck into your room during your chemo, why I understand some of what you're going through. That the world is not a wish-granting factory."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

"It was unimportant."

"But you told me now."

"Yes."

"Why?" He looked a little uncomfortable, so I decided to back off. "Never mind," I say.

"No. That's appropriate. It's only logical that you would want to know why I chose now to tell you about something I never talk about, instead of, say, when you told me your history or any time after. I chose now because I don't want to keep secrets from my best friend. I want you to know everything so that we can completely trust each other with the knowledge that there are no secrets between us. Because I don't want to lose you. Because you're family."

"Family?"

"Definitely."

8.

Sherlock and I separate amidst the crowd, and I end up with a group of other sixteen-year olds I recognize from school. I can't see my mother or Harry around the perimeter where all of the other non-eligible citizens are standing. Soon, the district twelve escort, Irene Adler takes a seat in one of the three chairs set on the temporary stage set up before the Justice Building. On this stage there is also a podium and two large glass balls: one per gender. Irene takes her seat next to Mayor Holmes, and they look towards Haymitch, who seems to be behaving himself. Or he could be asleep. Or drunk. Probably both.

At exactly 2' o clock, the mayor steps up to the podium and reads the history of Panem. I don't really listen because I'm telling my lungs to stop burning and to just hold it together until after the reaping. It seems like the mayor finished his speech, because Irene is walking up to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in and draws a card out. My headache morphs into an apocalyptic pain and as I think she reads the name, I s=drop to me knees, clutching my head in my hands. The crowd of kids parts next to me and I saw a girl begin walking up to the stage. I know her, I think she's a grade below me. Her name is Sally Donnovan.

People around me are beginning to look concerned, and I see Sherlock across from me. "Sherlock!" I yell, though I'm not sure how loud I am. Luckily, he hears me.

"John? John!" He pushes through the crowd to get to me. With difficulty, he gets on one knee.

"John, what's happening? How can I help?" He checks the oxygen tank and makes sure that everything is connected properly. I grab his arm and I think my nails make marks in his arm, they surely make marks in my other hand where my fists are clenched so tightly.

"My head," I stagger out.

"What? The headache? It's back? It's too much?" I can't really hear him but gently nod, trying not to disturb my head too much. He stands up and yells something, I don't know what. Peacekeepers arrive and pick me up off my feet. Sally stands next to Irene as she holds the boys tribute card in her hand. Irene reads the card and the crowd reacts unapprovingly. I don't know what the card says, but the Peacekeepers holding me are turning around and walking toward the podium.

But then Sherlock jumps in front of me and yells something. He repeats himself, then walks up to the podium, up those same steps I walked up so many years ago.

The last image I see is Irene holding up Sherlock and Sally's hands and cheerily announcing something. Sherlock's eyes are wide and he looks to be shouting something. Another figure emerges from the crowd, but I can't tell who it is.

"Sher-" but then I black out.

9.

I wake up in the hospital, with a tube protruding from my side connecting to a portable plastic bladder partially filled with amber liquid. There is no one in the sterile white room where I'm being held, just some peacekeepers by the door.

What happened? Oh right. The reaping. Sherlock. Where is he?

"H-hello?" I stammer, voice weak. The peacekeepers don't turn around.

"Excuse me…" and then I notice a big red button next to me labeled "NURSE CALL." I push it, and shortly thereafter a woman around my age in a nurse uniform comes in through the door and I glimpse a white hallway outside.

"Good afternoon, John. My name is Mary Morstan, and I'm going to be your nurse during your stay. How are you feeling?" says the nurse.

"Tired. Really tired."

"Well your family is going to come in soon, and after we get you better, you can go home. Any questions?"

I tap my fingers along the side of my head, thinking, and notice that my headache is gone. "Would ya look at that. No headache!" I say to myself. But Mary hears me and responds, "I would expect so. Your headache was caused by poor oxygenation, caused by your lungs having almost two liters of fluid in them."

"Do you know someone named Sherlock Holmes?"

"Child services aren't exactly my department, but I believe he's one of the tributes." She glances at her watch. "In fact, they should be concluding the goodbyes right about now…"

"I have to see him."

"Excuse me?"

"I have to see him." With each passing second my determination grows.

"You can't go anywhere in the condition you're in right now," Mary argues.

"But I must," and I begin taking off the sheets. Mary's eyes go wide.

"What are you doing?" she worriedly asks. "You can't do that!" I ignore her and swing my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to walk away. I cautiously place one foot one the tile floor, then another. With my hand still on the bed, I take a step forward, rapidly becoming out of breath. But I can't stop. I have to say goodbye.

"Stop! You shouldn't be up and about! You need to rest. To recover!"

"I'll do whatever I have to, _after_ I say goodbye to one of the tributes! I have to thank him. He saved," I take another step. "My," right foot forward, the world is starting to spin. "Life!" and I take one last step. The cannula connected to the large tank behind the bed is stretched to its full length.

"You can't go anywhere with the cannula!" Mary exasperatedly yells.

"Watch me," and I begin unhooking the cannula.

"John, stop!" Mary rushes over and re-threads the cannula after I almost have it off. I try to knock her hands out of the way, but I don't have the energy or enough force for my efforts to have an effect. I'm barely standing as it is.

"No, you stop! If you're not going to help me do this one thing then you're against me and I _have _to be there! Now get off of me!"

Just then my mom burst in, followed by Harry.

"Joh- What are you guys doing?" Mom says as she takes in the scene before her: me, attempting to unhook my cannula, the nurse, trying to keep my hands still, the peacekeepers not doing anything. "John, why on Earth are you taking off the cannula?" says Mom.

"Because," I still struggle to take it off. "I'm trying to say goodbye to Sherlock!"

"Oh sweetie, Sherlock's not going to the arena," Mom explains.

"What?" I momentarily stop struggling.

"Mycroft," says Harry. "Mycroft took Sherlock's place after Sherlock volunteered for you."

"Volunteered for… I was… They picked me?"

"Yes, and Sherlock took your place, but Mycroft took his. Mayor Holmes allowed it through," she clarifies.

"Oh." After a moment, I decide, "I want to see Mycroft."

"But it's not safe, John," says Mom.

"I don't care. I have to give him something."

"We can deliver it for you," Mom argues.

"No, I have to give it to him myself!" I finally succeed in getting the cannula off. The world is violently spinning, and I concentrate to try and walk without falling. Oxygen deprivation slows me down, but I take another step before Harry comes to my aid and steadies me with her arm around my shoulder.

"Let's go," she whispers in my ear. "Why not?" she asks Mary. "Would it kill him to take a wheelchair and go over there with a tank?"

"Well, uh, no… but-"

"Then we go," Harry proclaims.

"Harry… I need… the tank," I say, struggling for air.

"Now will you get him his tank? Please hurry!" Mary scurries off and Mom goes around and gets the cannula which I had previously removed. I quickly wrap it around my ears and place the nubbins in place. I lean my head on Harry's arm and just stand there, chest quickly moving up and down taking in the much-needed air.

"Thank you," I whisper.

10.

Mary soon returns pushing a wheelchair with an oxygen tank inside my original bag strapped to the back of it and the clothing I arrived in resting on the seat.

"A select peacekeeper and I will accompany you to your destination and see you back. It's not that I don't trust you," Mary assures. "It's just hospital policy to ensure that equipment is returned."

"Sounds good," I say. "Can I, uhh, change now?"

"Of course," Mary says. "But first I need to remove the tube."

"We'll wait for you outside," Mom tells me. "Come on, Harriet."

"It's Harry!"

After Mary finishes, she too goes outside leaving me in the room alone. I take the jeans out of the pile and put them on first over my boxers. Then, I take the hospital gown off and put my t-shirt over it. It's an old shirt with the word "HOUND" on it. I think they were an old rock band, from before they went out of business here in Twelve. Finally, I take the cord with a small bell on it and drape it over my neck, under my shirt and hit the "NURSE CALL" button again.

When I was around six years old, one day my dad brought home a brown spotted bunny. He let me name it, and I decided to name it "Bluebell." So my dad made a small bell, painted it blue, and tied it around Bluebell's neck so we would always remember her name. After she died, my dad gave the bell to me, which was a few months before the accident. Ever since then, the bell has been my good luck charm and I always wear it around my neck.

As Mary, my mom and sister come back in I situate myself in the wheelchair and replace the cannula before putting on my shoes.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" my mom asks the nurse as we exit the hospital.

"Well he won't calm down otherwise, and I'm under instructions only to drug if absolutely necessary," Mary replies.

After a few minutes of terse silence and fast walking, we reach the justice building along with its many stairs to get to the door.

"Do you need us to pull you up, John?" asked Mary.

"No, I can do it," I wearily reply. With Mom and the peacekeeper taking up the chair, Mary on my left, and Harry on my right carrying the bag with the tank on her back, I begin my ascent.

Thirty-nine steps to the top, and two landings each thirteen steps apart. With each landing, the steps get steeper; the first thirteen are wide steps which are easiest to run up – not that I'm going to be running. Then there is a small landing; the next thirteen are regular stairs. Then another landing; and the last thirteen are those steep stairs people usually go up by pulling themselves using a handrail.

I start climbing the first thirteen slowly, focusing on breathing in time to my feet hitting the stairs. Mom and the peacekeeper reach the first landing before I do.

"You're doing great," Harry tells me. I stop for a few seconds on the landing to catch my breath and adjust the cannula before starting the second set. This time, we go a bit faster because the stairs are normally sized and my lungs are burning before I reach the second landing. I try to go faster to get there sooner while telling by lungs, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," repeating it in my head like a mantra. I'm breathing heavily by the time we reach the second landing.

"We're almost there," encourages Mary. I nod in agreement.

"Do you want to use the handrail?" Harry asks.

"Yeah," my voice comes out all breathy and even though the tank is perfectly fine there doesn't feel like enough oxygen. Harry unstraps the tank from her back and hands it over to Mary who puts it on, giving me more time to try and breathe.

"I'll be right behind you," Harry assures with a gentle squeeze of my shoulder.

"Ready?" asks Mary, concern in her voice. "Are you sure you want to do-"

"Let's go," I interrupt and we start to climb.

My lungs are on fire and are telling me, "No, we can't do this," and my brain was agreeing, "We should be resting, not aggravating ourselves right after a fluid draining and light surgery. This isn't healthy!" But one small part of me, possibly my heart says, "Keep going, you can do this!" I feel like I owe it to Mycroft for saving Sherlock because if not for my foolishness of taking the tesserae, he probably would not have had to. It's kind of like repaying the universe by not taking the easy way out.

I use the handrail for support, and with my free hand clutch the bell around my neck. Mary supports me by my waist and I end up going faster towards the top because I just wanted to finish already so that whatever happens next I know I completed at least a part of my goal. I don't remember it being this hard the first time, but eventually I see the top despite the darkness threatening to overtake my vision. Just as I finish the last step, Mom guides me back on the wheelchair and I collapse into it, my chest rising and falling much faster than it should be. With eyes barely open, Mom wheels me into the building and I don't notice Sherlock until he actually bumps into the chair.

11.

His head is down and is walking quickly out of the building. "Sorry," he mumbles before realizing it's me.

"John? John! Wait a moment! What happened? I didn't see you at all after the peacekeepers took you away!" Sherlock chases after me and maneuvers around to the front of the wheelchair, walking backwards to keep up with the pace Harry's pushing the chair.

"John, are you okay? You just sorta fell to the floor in the square and you were looking really bad and I knew it was because of that headache from earlier – why didn't you accept help when you had the chance? Sometimes you can be so daft. So I called for a doctor and then the peacekeepers took you away," Sherlock keeps talking rapid-fire and is getting all worked up. "But then Irene pulled your name out of the ball and I was shocked because, hey what are the chances of that happening - your name was only in there fourteen times out of say over six-thousand which is less than a 0.23% chance so the odds were entirely on your side - but when they actually did call you it was like reality slammed _me_ in the face and – oh, I couldn't even imagine…"

"Sherlock," I say, a little less out of breath than before. He just keeps speaking like he didn't even hear me.

"…what it was like for you, but you probably didn't even know it was you because you were in so much pain I could tell and I'm so sorry there wasn't anything I could do because you looked so awful and are you okay now? What did they do to you? Are you better? You look a little better. So I volunteered for you because I knew that if you went into the arena you'd have no chance of winning – no offense but you'd be one of the first ones dead and I couldn't let that happen because I meant what I said earlier, I really did. You're a brother to me, a younger brother, and if anything were to happen to you I feel like I would just die. Not literally, but emotionally I would lose much of the will to live because there will never be another John Haymish Watson and you are the best conductor of light there ever was. But Mycroft feels the same way for me because I actually _am _his younger brother by birth so Mycroft took my place in the games and my father allowed it – how could he not? He would be choosing favorites if he made Mycroft stay behind, choosing him over me but he would be not choosing favorites allowing Mycroft to commit his own death sentence and …"

"Sherlock…"

"… so I had to go visit him and I was wondering why you weren't there because I thought you would want to visit him too, but then I thought that maybe you were indisposed because something had happened so I became really worried and was about to go look for you but I just-so-happened to bump into you and why are you in a wheelchair? They took you to the hospital, you should be all better now. What happened in the first place? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Sherlock!"

"Please tell me you're okay," he concluded with a worried expression. "I need to know that you're okay."

"Yes. I am now."

"I am so glad!" He looks like he wants to grab me by my hands and spin around, but then stops himself, knowing that this is neither the time nor the place and that if he did, we would both probably get hurt.

"So… why are you in a wheelchair?" he asks, concern taking over once more.

"Because I have a bad history with running."

"Oh. Are you going to see Mycroft?"

I nod. "I have something I want to give him."

"Well you'd better hurry up, they're about to leave…" He sighs, and his eyes drop to the floor. "I wish, I wish that I could help you…" he trails off.

Before I could respond to that, we reach the door which has Mycroft behind it. I stand, swing the tank over my shoulder onto my back and ask the peacekeeper standing by the door if it's too late to say goodbye.

He checks his watch. "You have three minutes," he states before opening the door and shutting it after I enter.

12.

"Mycroft?"

"John! What are you doing here? You should be in the hospital, recovering…"

"I needed to give you something."

Confusion spreads over Mycroft's features. After only a moment of hesitation, I gingerly remove the cord from around my neck, and clutch the bell in my fist before telling Mycrft the story of how it came to be mine.

"I couldn't take that from you, John," Mycroft states. "I couldn't take something so dear from you…"

"That's why," I step closer to him. "You'll give it back," and pace the cord over his neck, "when you return," I step away. "After you win."

He's clearly having doubts about even borrowing something so special with the chance he might lose it or that he might not come back.

"Ask Irene to make sure it gets back to me, then. No matter what happens to you."

This seems to soothe his conscience and he accepts.

"Thank you, John. And uh, do me a favor, will you?"

"Sure."

"Look after Sherlock after I'm gone."

"But you're coming ba-"

"Please."

"With any luck, I won't have to."

This doesn't satisfy him.

"I will."

He smiles, a sad little small that means he knows he won't be coming back.

"Thank you," he says, shaking my hand. I smile.

"What are we doing, Mycroft?" I say before closing the gap and full on hugging him. "This is how it's done." He doesn't say anything, but Mycroft squeezes me back.

"Time's up!" the peacekeeper says as he opens the door and ushers me out.

After the door closes, I go back to the hospital, Sherlock tagging along until he isn't allowed any farther. At one point, it's family only. We return the wheelchair, and I climb back into the bed, thinking about what Mycroft said, "After I'm gone." It's like he has no hope for the future, like he's already in the process of accepting his death. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems relatively upbeat, content with whatever words he and Mycroft exchanged. Mycroft probably told him that he'll "try to win" or something to keep Sherlock's spirits high. But truthfully, he doesn't think he'll make it.

It takes a few days of recuperation to operate normally again. On the fifth day, I go home. Sherlock comes over to visit after school, and we chat, just like normal. Mycroft scores a seven on the tributes' evaluation, and in the interview, crowd sympathizes with the older brother who volunteered to save his sibling. They root for the slightly awkward yet adorably dorky seventeen year old district twelve tribute.

On the first day of the games, he makes out relatively well, with a backpack full of dried fruit and medical supplies, and he lasts a long time.

Mycroft makes it to the final eight, and they interview some of his family and friends. This means the mayor, his wife, Sherlock, and Greg. I'm offered an interview, but turn it down. I don't want to tell my life story to the Capitol.

13.

Sherlock and I are in the Hob, so neither of us see it when it happens. Afterwards, Greg told us he saw it. I'm sure his parents saw it, and I'm eternally glad Sherlock did not. When Sherlock and I return to his home, we are immediately greeted by a teary-eyed Mrs. Hudson.

"Come in," she says. "Sherlock, your parents want to see you." Everything about the house feels weird. "John, you can stay down here." I don't want to intrude on personal family business, so I stay in the living room while Sherlock goes upstairs. I twiddle my thumbs, nervously awaiting Sherlock's return downstairs to tell me what happened. When he finally does, I see a side of him entirely new.

Sherlock doesn't care about many people. There are few he lets into his inner circle, few people who can hurt him. When Sherlock comes downstairs, I know instantly that something has changed. That he is hurt.

"Mycroft," he says, standing in front of the staircase. His eyes begin to water. "Myc-"

He slides down against the base of the handrail and lands with a thud on the floor, one leg outstretched, the other bended so his knee is almost at his face. His hands are in fists blocking out most of his face, but I see his eyes. "I can't say it. I can't say it," his voice is in whispers, and it cracks on the last word. I walk over to him, rolling my bag behind me.

"What is it?" I say after I have crouched down next to him.

"Mycroft. He, he…" Sherlock does not complete his sentence, but instead does something I have never seen him do before.

Sherlock Holmes cries.

He sobs in his hands and I have no idea what to do. Mycroft… dead? Sherlock… crying? I can't wrap my mind around any of it. I search through my memories for something that would make this all make sense, but in every single image I can conjure I see a Mycroft who is alive and lively and a Sherlock who has a mask around his emotions, not letting anyone in.

Sherlock doesn't say anything else.

We stay there, by his banister, for the rest of the day, each of us lost in our own thoughts, sharing a comfortable silence forged by mutual grief.

The last thing he says to me is, "It's getting late, you should go home," at around 6.

"Are you sure?" I ask. It's not that I don't want to leave him to his peace, but that I am worried about him and the state he's in.

"Go."

So I turn to leave. "And John?" I stop. "Thank you, for staying with me." I smile at him, and walk home alone.

14.

Today's the day. The air is heavy, and it's a muggy, cloudy day. Looks like it will rain. Today, I will get up, bathe, dress, eat, and do everything the way I normally do on Sundays. Except, today won't be a normal day. Today I will be dressed in black, even the bag in which I carry the oxygen tank, even the tank itself, will be black. I will go to the funeral of my best friend's brother.

There will be many people standing around the grave. Some, because they are family, others to make a necessary appearance, and there are those who will come only because they want to meet the mayor. Greg and Mrs. Hudson will attend.

Speakers will speak of how they remember Mycroft, of how their lives were touched by him, and most will say how their lives will never be the same. Sherlock will speak. I don't know what he will say. I will not speak, just listen.

It will rain, and somebody will open a black umbrella over the grave. Many people will cry. Nobody will speak of how he died, only that it was a tragedy. From what I've been told, Mycroft was brutally injured when one of the other tributes expertly stabbed him in his side with a spear, hacked off one of his arms and then ran away with the Careers on his tail. Mycroft hid behind a tree, and the Careers were so engrossed in their pursuit, somehow nobody noticed him or the trail of blood he left behind. Slowly but surely, he bled out.

At the end of the burial, somebody with a black lotus in their hair will approach me and press a little blue bell into my hand. I will not recognize the person, and they will walk away, without saying a word. I will silently thank Mycroft for returning this to me, and tell him that I will deliver on my promise.

Sherlock will be the last to leave, and I will wait for him. He will not cry, his parents will. I will shed a few tears. And nothing will ever be the same.

15.

Nobody knew how much Sherlock needed Mycroft until after he was gone. I didn't see Sherlock as often, he was usually holed up in his room. He became unreachable, and everyone said, "This is just a stage, it will pass," but it didn't. Greg and I became concerned, but we couldn't reach him no matter how much we tried. We knew he was really losing it when in one of my attempts to talk to him, he interrupted me by saying, "Are you my therapist or something?" and stormed off. So I didn't try that again. My best friend was crumbling before my eyes and I couldn't do anything about it.

So one day, I couldn't take it anymore. Greg helped me up the torturous stairs, and I reached the door to Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock," said Greg, knocking on the door as I leaned against the wall catching my breath. "Open up!"

No response. I looked to Greg and nodded. "Do it," I said. Greg took a pin from his pocket and picked the lock on the door. When we got inside, we saw Sherlock laying atop his bed, staring at the ceiling, one unlit cigarette in his mouth.

"What do you think you're doing?" I yelled at him.

"What? John, Greg? How did you guys get in here?" he asked.

"I asked you a question," I said. Completely ignoring what his response, I repeated myself. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Excuse me?"

"What he means is," Greg explained. "That you've been stuck in here for days and we want to know just what do you think you're doing?"

He looked around. "Not smoking, laying down…"

"Get up," I demanded.

"Why? Is this some sort of intervention, because I'm fin-"

"Up!"

"Fine," he grumbled, and wobbly stood up.

Before he could ask any more questions, Greg pinned him to the wall and I punched his face. Once. Twice. Three times.

"What the-" Sherlock started.

And then hugged him.

"I'm very confused," he said over my shoulder. "Is it just me or are there mixed emotions going on here?"

"Out," I said when I released him.

"What?"

"You're going outside," Greg added.

"Wait a minute. First you punch me and give me a bloody nose," he dabs a tissue on it. "And then you want me to go outside with no explanation what so ever?"

"Yep," I said, walking out the door. "Greg," I cued. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pushed him outside.

"Down," he said.

"Why should I?" Netiher of us responded.

"Seriously, why should I?" After a moment's pause, I said, "Because you're up."

"You're lucky I like you too much to kill you, John," Sherlock said.

"I know."

So he went down. As usual, I took a lot longer and by the time I got downstairs again, I almost wanted to pass out.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Greg asked, concern in his eyes.

"Go, I'll catch up."

16.

Later on, I climbed through a hole in the fence and stepped out of the District Twelve borders. It's not the safest place, but it is by far the most beautiful. I asked Greg to take Sherlock here because I wanted Sherlock to remember all of the beautiful things in life that make it worth living.

When I arrived at the designated field Greg and I scouted yesterday, Sherlock was laying on the grass, and Greg was… Greg… _Greg was weaving flowers in Sherlock's hair?_

When I approached them, Greg sat up, but Sherlock stayed on the ground. Half his hair was adorned beautifully with flowers and Greg stopped weaving a little embarrassed.

"Now I'm confused," I said.

"Well, I… he…," Greg stammered. "I do the flowers on my sisters, and he… seems to like it."

Upon closer inspection, I notice that none of the woven flowers are appledoor flowers, the ones that grow most commonly in this field. Appledoor flowers were Mycroft's favorite. Maybe that's why none of them were in his hair, Sherlock didn't want them picked.

"How do you like my new hairstyle?" Sherlock asked, his eyes trained on the sky. "Greg, please do finish." Greg smiled at me, then resumed twisting and braiding the flowers into Sherlock's hair.

I sat down on the grass and watched as Greg's pattern unfolded itself, and finally finished into a crown of daises, dandelions, and daffodils. "It's amazing," I whispered in awe.

"I know," Sherlock dryly responded. "My hair is certainly the eighth wonder of the world, with its texture, bounciness, and all that." I couldn't suppress a smile. Even in his lowest moments, Sherlock was still able to make other's crack a smile. If only he could do that himself. Just smile.

I didn't speak, and we watched the sun get lower into the sky. When the last rays of the sun were hitting our faces, I glanced at Sherlock, and I saw something unexpected.

It will be a long time before I forget that image; it was Sherlock, with the sun on his face, flowers in his hair, and he was smiling.

A soft, faint, almost a not smile but it still was. And that, I knew, was the beginning of a long road to recovery for him. It would be a hard road, full of twists and turns, false starts and dead ends, but the road would still be there. And we would all make it through.

Together.


End file.
